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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29045658">there's a man on the platform</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldairballoons/pseuds/coldairballoons'>coldairballoons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:08:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29045658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldairballoons/pseuds/coldairballoons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after Pierre and Anatole's encounter, and before Anatole leaves for Petersburg?</p><p>(title from Subway from Ghost Quartet)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin/Natalya "Natasha" Ilyinichna Rostova (past), Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there's a man on the platform</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am once again hyperfixating on sad alcoholic Russians.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Moscow looked different at night, Anatole decided, as he walked for the last time from the club. Alcohol in his veins, tears in his eyes, and a stumble in his step. The last time he’d been drunk like this, out of pure </span>
  <em>
    <span>misery </span>
  </em>
  <span>rather than pure want for an escape, for fun, for lust, for anything… well, he couldn’t remember.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t bothered to call for Balaga, or call for some other driver, perhaps he just wasn’t thinking clearly, but the snow crunching under his heavy boots and the flakes falling from the sky at a steady rate, getting caught in his hair and stuck on his eyelashes, was somewhat comforting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wind bit his neck, his face, and made his eyes well with tears. It was bitter, it stung… but it was a reminder of what he had done. He deserved the cold, he deserved the biting wind and freezing snow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His coat’s hem dragged in the snow, and he knew it would be damp when he returned home… but he wouldn’t be returning home. No, not this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time, he turned towards the train station.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stumbling up the wooden steps to the platform, holding onto a support beam for, well, his own support. His throat was burning, the alcohol and bitter tears and hoarseness from the wind was worse than he could have imagined. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wanted Dolokhov. Dolokhov wouldn’t leave him like this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he did, didn’t he? Anatole looked down the tracks, to the right, to the left. Dolokhov had left him like this, ashamed, probably. He knew he would be, but the mere </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Fedya leaving him all alone because of the shame…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was crying again. The cold stung his face, and he was sure his tears were frozen to his face, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Anatole collapsed into the snow, sobbing brokenly, grabbing fistfuls of the snow, of his own coat, of his hair, anything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t care how the ice immediately seemed to freeze his hands, fingers growing numb almost instantly, or how, when he bowed his head to the ground after it became far too heavy to hold up on its own, his face pressed into it, the bite almost too agonizing to stand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he would die here, Anatole thought, and even the voice in his head was hoarse, slurred. Maybe he would die here, in this freezing, hateful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible</span>
  </em>
  <span> world, drowning in vodka and wine and snow and his own thoughts. In everyone’s hatred and horrible, horrible stares as he walked down the street.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Natalie, Natalya, Natasha… he didn’t want to think of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was nothing for him in Moscow, not anymore. The snow seemed to laugh at him as he sat up, after what seemed like hours and seconds all at once. His jaw was tight, shuddering, and his teeth chattered as he bundled himself closer in his coat. There was no warmth left in the soaked fabric, only further cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have taken that fur cloak, Anatole thought to himself, with a bitter laugh on his lips. Fedya had been right, that bastard, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>fils de pute</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had been right, he was right about so much…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Anatole hated him for it. Really, he did, he wanted to grab him by the collar and pull him up and then shove him back away, wanted to hit him in the jaw, break his nose, slap him, press his forearm against his neck against the wall and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like they would always jokingly do while fighting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he wanted Fedya to know how it felt. How it felt to be lost and betrayed and alone and frozen in the snow, in the arms of the city that cast him out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shut his eyes, leaning his head against that support beam. Dully, he felt a pain at the back of his head, and heard a distant “clang”, as though he’d fallen back against it, but Anatole didn’t care, couldn’t tell. Rather than moving, adjusting, trying to return home, to return to the club, he squeezed his eyes tighter, and tried to let sleep overcome him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was cold that night. Cold in the streets of Moscow, cold in Russia, cold in Fedya’s soul.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew where the prince would be. He knew where he had been, he knew where he would go after. He knew too much about Anatole Kuragin, he knew what he wanted, what he needed. What he feared, what he longed for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he knew how best to carry him. How to check his pulse--still thudding dully, yet slower than usual. How to warm his hands and face, how to wipe the frozen tears and drool and mucus from his sleeping face and comb his fingers through his hair, matted from the wind and snow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew how to take care of him, while asleep. How to bring his body temperature back to normal, how to let him lay on the bed and sleep while Fedya sat beside him and read.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Anatole awoke, he was dead. He was sure of it, he was dead, because it was warm. He was dry. There was no cold or train station or snow…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Fedya was reading to him. His voice was gruff, and he stumbled over words, but… Anatole rubbed his eyes, groaning, and Fedya looked down at him, let out a breathy, relieved laugh. “You’re alive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…” Anatole rubbed his eyes. It was too early, too bright, his head throbbed, it was too early for Russian. His head was spinning, but he managed a weak, “Fedya, </span>
  <em>
    <span>où suis-je</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re in my house.” Dolokhov said gently, brushing Anatole’s hair out of his face with a shaky hand. Why was </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> shaking? Anatole was the one hungover, raggedly breathing, sniffling… pathetic, in his bed. “You were at the station last night, in the snow-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembered. He didn’t want to remember, but by God’s insufferable grace, he did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I saw you leave,” Fedya continued, hand not stopping its gentle motions against Anatole’s head. “And I knew you would die out there without me-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am fine.” Anatole insisted, and tried to sit up, and all at once, the world spun--he fell back into the pillows, wheezing weakly--why was his chest so tight, his head so heavy and light all at once? “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You certainly don’t look it, Tolya.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t patronize me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dégagé."</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anatole shot a look at him, which certainly tried to be intimidating, but Fedya just continued to play with his hair, shaking his head fondly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>N’importe quoi</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Fedya.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fedya hummed. “Of course you are.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anatole rolled over, shutting his eyes again, but shuffled a bit closer to Fedya, savoring in his warmth. His entire body ached, his mind was dull and empty and throbbing from the movement and energy exerted to speak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to leave.” Anatole whispered, and his voice was low, nothing more than a murmur.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Fedya finally, finally, laid down next to him, holding him in his arms, as tenderly as a small child. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And Bezukhov will have my head if I stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And the Rostovas will tear me apart.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So why shelter me? Why spare my life? Why…” Anatole shrugged, pressing back into Dolokhov’s embrace. “Why save me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fedya took a moment, ducking his head to press his nose to Anatole’s head, and dully, Anatole could feel his lips brush his hair. Why it made his heart thud in his chest, he couldn’t say, but when Fedya spoke, he knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Moscow isn’t home without you.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fils de pute: Son of a whore<br/>Où suis-je?: Where am I?<br/>Dégagé: Go away.<br/>N’importe quoi: Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>As always, check me out on Tumblr at @coldairballoons, @locallemony and @bisexualwilliammurdoch! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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